


It'll Do For Now

by OriginalCeenote



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Clint Barton Bingo Card, Clint Barton Repair Kit, F/M, Ficlet, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Relationship, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 03:57:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18335717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Someone has to patch Clint up when he gets himself into his usual messes, and who better for the job than his best friend?





	It'll Do For Now

**Author's Note:**

> The talented @kangofu-cb and I have briefly discussed that Nat has a “Clint Barton Repair Kit.” This high school AU ficlet was inspired by the likelihood that Nat has exactly such a thing tucked away for special occasions.
> 
>  
> 
> I love this bingo card SO much.

“Pssst. Psst. Nat. _Nat._ ”

Natasha rolled her eyes before she followed the sound of Clint’s voice, furtive and urgent. He was hanging back in the doorway of their algebra class, and his cheeks were flushed. Natasha closed her locker door and spun the combination lock to clear it before sauntering over to join him.

“What’s up, Barton?” Her tone held the unspoken _What did you do now?_ that made him cringe a little.

“Nothin’. I swear. I just need you to help me out with something.”

“Okay.”

“Come closer and stand in front of me for a sec,” he hissed. His blue-gray eyes flitted around the corridor. Third period began in two minutes.

“Why?”

“Just do it, okay?”

She moved a little closer, covering him from view, and Clint turned around, exposing his drafty backside. The tear in the back seam of his jeans exposed the crack of his ass, telling her immediately that he ran out of clean underwear in the laundry pile.

“You went _commando?_ ” 

“Quiet! Shit! I got a late start today, okay?”

Nat bit her lip, suppressing a snicker that lacked sympathy. 

“Please tell me you have your sewing kit.”

“I’ll do you one better. You can borrow my gym shorts. We’ll have to improvise a little in the meantime. Stay there. Back to the wall, pal.”

“You sound like Barney when you say that.”

“That’s not a compliment.”

Clint backed up and folded his arms across his chest, trying to look casual. Natasha went to her locker again and reopened it, pulling out her green hoodie. “I still owe you a solid from eighth grade,” she explained. “From that time you lent me yours to wrap around my waist during the winter band concert.”

Middle school. White skirt. Nat’s period chose to start that night during the middle of “Greensleeves” and Clint saw what happened from his place in the drum line. Nat was first chair in the flute section. She heard the snare drum stop and moments later felt him tying his maroon band sweater around her waist and stumbling back through the woodwinds to resume his place. Mr. Fury, their band director, raised his brow and kept on waving his baton, nonplussed. 

“Here. We’ll figure this out. I’ll need a hall pass,” she grumbled. “You’re messing with my perfect attendance,” she added.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he insisted. “I’d kiss your feet if it didn’t mean bending over.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She wrapped the sweater around his waist and looped the sleeves into a snug knot. “Okay. Good enough. Where do you have to be next?”

“Home ec.”

“You could almost sew them yourself.”

“It’s the cooking one,” he corrected her.

“Shoot. Okay. Okay. We’ll figure this out.” Which meant that _she_ would figure it out. Nothing new.

“I can bring you my shorts after class, since I have band practice in the field house anyway, and I’ll be closer to my gym locker. I might be able to get Mr. Jarvis to take pity on me and let me use the sewing room for a minute.”

“That’s the soonest that you can do it?” he whined.

“Sorry. You’re asking for miracles, buddy.”

“But you’re so _good_ at them.”

“Let me get a hall pass. Go. Go cook.”

“I owe you.”

“Who’s even keeping score?” she asked innocently, raising her ginger brows at him for good measure. Clint leaned over and gave her cheek a sloppy kiss that she promptly wiped off. “Ew. Quit it.” Yet she was pleased, and those weren’t little warm fuzzies in her stomach, thank you very much.

Ms. Munroe let her have the hall pass when she whispered “Gotta take care of girl stuff” at the edge of her desk, easily waving her off. Nat booked it to the field house, deciding to cut Clint a break. If she hurried, she could make it back before her pop quiz, and before Clint had to start his cinnamon bun assignment. 

*

By now, it was a habit. 

Nat had become Clint Barton’s guardian angel as early as kindergarten. When he skinned his knee after Scotty Lang jumped off his end of the see-saw before Clint’s feet could touch the ground, Nat was the one who pulled him aside.

“Ew. You need a band-aid,” she hissed.

“Don’t have one,” he sniffled, wiping his eyes and snotty nose on the back of his arm.

“That’s okay.” Natasha reached into her small, plastic Hello Kitty pocketbook and pulled out a travel tin, opening the lid. “Do you want Bubbles or Buttercup?”

His brows furrowed. “You don’t have any boy band-aids?”

She shook her head. “It’ll still make the owie feel better. Do you want one or not?”

Clint looked around the playground and nodded. Natasha set down her purse and ripped open the bandage wrapper, deftly peeling open the tabs. She bent down and gave his leg a brief poke and mashed the band-aid over the cut. Clint winced. “Ow,” he muttered.

“Don’t get on the see-saw with him anymore.”

“I won’t,” he muttered sourly.

That was how it began.

Looking after Clint was like breathing. Natasha was the one who helped him open his locker when the combination lock was sticky. Natasha lent him pencils when he lost his and she always had gum. Or cough drops. Or Motrin. Natasha checked out library books for him when he couldn’t find his library card and brought him his homework whenever he was sick. 

When they were older, the favors became more complex. When Clint came to school wearing sunglasses to cover a shiner, Nat was the one who took him aside and gave him some of her cover-up, gently daubing it over the dark, purpling bruise. 

“Walked into a doorknob?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Okay.”

“Can I come over to your house after school today?”

“Of course. I’m making snickerdoodles. We’ll watch lots of dumb shit on TV.”

“Can you make chocolate chip instead?”

“That’s fine.”

“This stuff feels gross.”

“It’ll help, though. Teachers never let you wear shades in class.”

“You can with a doctor’s note. Summers got one for his migraines.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Her touch was gentle, and she made quick, careful work of his eye. 

“It’ll do,” she pronounced.

“I hate my dad,” he muttered.

“So do I, sweetie.”

*

They sat slumped together on the couch in her basement, gorging on cookies and milk. They marathoned five episodes of _Bob’s Burgers_ before Nat’s foster mom informed them that Clint would have to go home.

“Smell ya later,” Clint told her sadly.

His eyes looked so dejected, even though he was giving her that same boyish grin.

“Not if I smell you first.”

*

 

Over time, her Barton Repair Kit evolved to include more random necessities. Duct tape. Needle and thread. A pen knife. Bottle opener. A spare pair of men’s briefs. Hair spray. Breath mints. Clear nail polish. Spare buttons. Tide stain pens. You name it, Nat kept it for Clint in her locker or her purse. 

“What would I do without you?” he mused as she soaked a pizza stain out of his shirt with club soda after sixth period lunch.

“Hope that you never find out,” she suggested. “How do you keep doing this? Does the food ever actually make it into your mouth?”

“Some of it.” On cue, he burped in her face. 

Nat swatted his arm. “Gross!”

 

So her best friend was a disaster. No big deal. 

Because helping Clint out of a bind had its own rewards. Like his terrible jokes. Or that special little crooked smile of his, that Nat always assumed was just for her. Or the way he would always save her a seat on the bus to football games or in the bleachers at pep rallies. Or his hugs, warm and strong that sometimes made her wish she didn’t have to let go. He smelled like Tide and Axe spray and his body felt firm and comforting. 

And sometimes, when he looked at her, really looked at her, she wondered if he saw her. Really saw her. 

But, come on. It was Clint.

_Clint._


End file.
